


New Day Rising

by unfinishedlines



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: But not canon-divergent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ivy Pepper POV, No graphic descriptions of anything though, Oswald and Ivy are big sibling energy, Pining Oswald Cobblepot, Post The Gentle Art Of Making Enemies, Set in Season 3, not really canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedlines/pseuds/unfinishedlines
Summary: I’m not sure if it was his voice or his vulnerability that ignited the flame to which I was drawn, but I was a moth all the same. I’d sit by his side, hold his hand, and dry the tears from his cheeks every nightEdcame for a visit. Sometimes I would answer what he said, and it felt like having a friend, someone who wouldn’t leave. Night-time became my favorite time. It was when the white roses—and he—would open up to me.Ivy Pepper finds a half-dead man at the edge of the river, but it's unclear who saves who when the two become close.
Relationships: Hinted Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot & Ivy Pepper
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	New Day Rising

**Author's Note:**

> This story doesn't quite match up with the portrayal of Ivy and Oswald's friendship at this point in the show, but what's fanfic for if not to play with the canon a little, huh?
> 
> Please read, kudo, comment, and enjoy!

When I found a body reeking of salt and betrayal by the river, and I dragged home the feeble, delirious man whispering nonsense about _sacrifice_ and _change_ and _love_ , I expected him to rise the morning after, thank me, maybe drink a nice cup of tea as he waited for a taxi, and leave me behind. Everyone always left me behind.

But the body I found took ages to wake. Yes, he’d open his eyes now and then between naps, ask for some _Ed, Ed, where are you Ed_ , and then pass out again, but, through it all, he was never really here. I hadn’t expected that, but I should have. Everything about him was odd, right down to his bird-like features. 

It wasn't until about the third day that I realized anything that I told him or did to him was immediately forgotten—since he kept on asking about that _Ed_ even though I kept telling him I didn't know who he was and that he wasn't here—so I decided to have some fun with it.

First, it was Sharpie mustaches. Then, it was crowns of roses on his head pinned across his soft, ebony locks and plant-based cosmetic makeovers over his closed eyes. I loved having someone so easily pranked—since, well, he was always asleep—but the novelty of it quickly wore away. The doodles I drew no longer brought a smile to my face. I’d wash them off right away half the time. Soon enough, nothing I did to him was fun anymore.

He talked the most at night. Well, more like rambled. In the greenhouse we were staying in, I had nocturnal plants, so I was used to being awake at unholy hours to tend them. He turned out to be nocturnal, too. I hadn’t expected that, but I should have. Mumbles and mutterings about his _Ed, Ed, God, I am sorry, I love you so much, I never wanted to hurt you_ started flowing from his lips. They were soft confessions soaked in pain from the wound and, I quickly guessed, his heart. 

I’m not sure if it was his voice or his vulnerability that ignited the flame to which I was drawn, but I was a moth all the same. I’d sit by his side, hold his hand, and dry the tears from his cheeks every night _Ed_ came for a visit. Sometimes I would answer what he said, and it felt like having a friend, someone who wouldn’t leave. Night-time became my favorite time. It was when the white roses—and he—would open up to me. 

Then, he woke up. The rose revealed his thorns. His suspicious and cruel nature pricked me on all sides as I tried to be kind to him. Every gentle advancement he would refuse with sneers and insults. Even though he was mean and he pushed me away, the echoes of his mumbles kept me going. Oswald—as I learned he was called—did not make a move to leave. Mostly because, well, he couldn't.

It had been hard for him to move before. I found an old injury on his knee the first night he spent in the greenhouse, back when he was just a body I found in the river, and I correctly assumed it caused a limp. A gunshot wound did not make it any easier. He was bedridden most of the time, with only me to keep him company. He often used me as a way to vent out his many frustrations—Oswald was an angry man—and I found myself longing for the endless days when he would never wake, instead of the endless days when he would never sleep. It was weeks of bottled-up rage that he spat from his mouth. Sometimes, he wouldn't even look me in the eye. 

But once he had emptied his anger, the rose cleared of his defenses greeted me. Weak and lightheaded and broken, he softened his tone. He actually let me speak. I took the opportunity, lecturing him about the plants around him and recounting how I had heroically dragged him from the river and healed his gunshot wound with a few ointments I had prepared. I was proud. He was thankful. Whenever I joked, he grinned. Whenever I needed to ramble, he’d give me a space on the bed and listen to me. As we talked, he would take the roses, like I had weeks before, and lace them through my copper hair, looking at me with the heartbroken smile of a man who has given up on love. 

I was the one who helped him stand. He leaned all his weight on me—he was _much_ heavier than I had been expecting—like he had when feeble and delirious and dying. Using me for support, he found the strength to remain upright. His stomach curled in on itself as the pain of stretching the healed skin coursed through him. His knee, after weeks of immobility, had grown rigid and sensitive. Oswald did not want to push to stand straight, to be able to walk again. It was my words that encouraged him like traces on a rose's petals encourage it to bloom. I gave him a steady hand to hold onto as he fell and fell and fell. Like in the river, I picked him up again and again and again. Every time his hand left mine, it found its way back. He returned and returned and returned.

It was weeks before he could walk—well, limp—on his own once again, but the night he managed it was the first night I danced. He took me by the arm, and, barefoot and all, spun me about the flowers of the greenhouse in the crescent moon’s light. It was a lively beat, filled with his laughter and my cheering as we spun in a circle to a rhythm in his head. I hadn’t expected to one day see him dancing in the dark with such happiness in his gaze, but I should have. That was the first time I heard his laughter. When he turned to me with bright blue eyes, I realized his smile did not seem pained. So I put my soul into following his odd spins and footwork, relishing in his joy as the night gave way to a new day rising for both the King of Gotham and me.


End file.
